


Grounding

by postjentacular



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A smidgen of swearing, Gen, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10643166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postjentacular/pseuds/postjentacular
Summary: In which we count down from five.





	

Draco Malfoy had had to make The Most Important Decision Of His Life so many times in his eighteen years he’d long lost count. His life or death decisions should have been _‘charcoal or onyx trousers?’_ or _‘silver or platinum tie?’_ , not actual life or death – be it his or someone else’s. With the years of practice he'd had at making The Most Important Decision Of His Life, it would be reasonable to assume he'd have gotten better at making the right decisions; he wasn't convinced. Voldemort? Bad decision. Dumbledore? Good decision. Having faith in Harry Potter? Reluctantly good. Going back to Hogwarts? Jury's still out. Deciding to leave it ‘til the last possible moment before getting on the train? He’d find out soon enough.

He stepped gracefully into the last carriage of the Hogwarts Express as the smoke billowed from the engine up front and the train began to pull out of Kings Cross station. The little time he had had to spend on the platform – thus limiting the whispers, stares and, more often than not, outright violent abuse directed his way on the rare occasion he ventured out in public since his acquittal – had pushed his decision into the ‘good idea’ column, but as he made his way through the packed carriage each step was a step closer to his old friend, ‘bad idea’.

As he walked the corridor of the train each compartment, by complete coincidence, became full; feet swung themselves onto adjacent chairs, satchels spread their contents across benches and toads needed whole seats themselves for their comfort and safety. Although it was, he had no doubt, completely personal, he wasn’t going to let it get to him. Pulling himself even taller, fixing his impassive mask, he carried on.

“Oi, Malfoy!”

The Weasel. Draco steeled himself for the inevitable onslaught from the least-refined of The Golden Trio. _It’ll probably be a hex_ , he told himself, _boils or welts perhaps. Doesn’t The Weasel do something with bats? Is that this one or one of the dozen or so others? They’re all so interchang–_

“Ferret face!” The shout shook him out of his thoughts, “You want the seat or not?”

Draco took stock of the compartment: The Weasel and Granger practically sitting atop each other; The Saviour looking out the window not even deigning to acknowledge Draco. “Do I want to sit with the Gryffindorks?” he asked, falling comfortably into the sneer that was second nature to him. “I’d rather fellate a Hufflepuff,” he added hoping the vulgarity made up for the first-year-worthy _Gryffindorks_ insult.

“‘Puffs won’t have you though, will they?” The Weasel said and Draco fought to keep the red from his cheeks at the cutting accuracy; Hufflepuffs welcome everyone except – it seems – acquitted Death Eaters. He turned on his heel and made to continue down the train as the compartment door closed with a forceful click. “What‽” Even muffled through the door Draco could hear the uncouth chewing that accompanied talking with one’s mouth full, “That was me being civil!”

Surprisingly, the rest of the train had proven to be even less civil than The Weasel and so – with too much self-respect left to take up the only offer he’d been made – Malfoy transfigured his Charms textbook into a cushion and settled down between the towers of trunks in the luggage compartment with only a box of Pepper Imps and Arsenius Jigger’s _Potions Opuscule_ to keep him entertained.

The Hogwarts Express must’ve been somewhere near the Scottish Borders before the door to the luggage compartment rattled open and Draco had company. He risked a look over the trunks to the door. Potter, of course, it was Potter and it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that The Boy Who Lived just so happened to choose to visit Draco’s hiding spot. “I’m not doing anything,” Draco drawled with boredom. Potter didn’t turn around. “I’m not,” Draco said again, with what he hoped was just enough sincerity to be convincing. Potter crumpled unceremoniously to the floor.

“Fuck,” Draco cursed under his breath. It would not do well for Draco to be found with an injured Potter, he might was well just apparate straight to Azkaban and set himself up next door to his father. He made his way across the carriage and hunkered down in front of Potter. The shivering, hyperventilating heap on the dusty floor was not The Saviour Of The Wizarding World; it was not the boy Draco rarely, barely tolerated. It was broken.

Draco manhandled the heap into a seated position and leant it back against the wall; he gently grasped the sides of its head and stared into the glassy green eyes willing them to focus. Slowly the heap’s breathing slowed from hyperventilation to a mere rapid pant and Potter’s eyes began to focus on Draco’s. “Tell me five things you can see,” Malfoy said evenly. Potter’s head dipped, his chin tucking into his chest. Draco gently slipped his fingers under Potter’s chin and tipped his head back up to let their eyes meet again. “Five things you can see, Potter,” he punctuated with a click of his fingers.

“Malfoy?” Potter asked between pants.

“That’s one, four to go.” Potter’s breathing began to speed up again, “From the top, Scarhead, five things you can see. Go.”

Potter breathed in as deeply as he could between pants and held it for a little longer than he had been, “Malfoy, trunks, door, bird cage–” he wheezed and his fingers scrabbled on the floor feeling for purchase.

“One more,” Draco encouraged.

“Dust.”

“Good. Four things you can feel.”

“Wooden floorboards, sweat, wool,” Draco felt a tug around his neck and glanced down to see Potter crushing his tie tight in his sweaty paws, “and silk.”

“Three things you can hear.”

“Clackity clack-clack,” Potter said, imitating the sound of the train wheels on the track.

Draco's eyebrow cocked, “I'll forgive your ineloquence this time. Two more.”

Potter screwed his eyes shut and concentrated on his breathing. “My heartbeat,” he eventually murmured. “Your heartbeat,” he said opening his eyes.

Draco felt said heartbeat start to race, much to his chagrin. He tried to ignore it and stick to his process, “Two things you can smell, Potter.”

“Mustiness,” Potter said, getting the hang of Malfoy’s questions, “and something spicy.”

Draco swallowed the sarcasm that bit on the tip of his tongue, now wasn't the time. “And one thing you can taste.”

Before Draco realised what was happening, Potter’s lips were on his. Without conscious thought he gasped, his lips parted, which Potter’s tongue took as an invite. Moments after he knew he should have, Draco guiltily pulled away.

Potter held his gaze, “Cinnamon,” he slumped back against the wall, “I expected you'd taste pricklier.” He let go of Draco’s tie and his hands fell uselessly to his lap where he watched them wring restlessly. “How’d you do that?”

“What? That?” Draco cocked an eyebrow and leaned back on his heels; he continued darkly, “Good guys don’t have a monopoly on trauma, Potter.” He didn't think it possible for Potter to look more broken, but the way his tear-stained face crumbled at the sound of his surname being spat at him, proved Draco wrong.

“I didn’t…” Potter stumbled, “it’s alright that…” he trailed off mid-sentence, watching his fidgety fingers rather than look at Draco. His breath hitched a couple of times before he spoke again, low and directed to his lap, “Why’d you not leave me?”

“And get blamed for breaking The Saviour? No, thank you. It's called self-preservation, you should look into it sometime.” Potter looked up and gave him a watery smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Draco looked away, focussed on an indistinguishable spot on the wall above Potter’s shoulder, “Or perhaps,” he said quietly, “I couldn’t leave you, of all people, like that.” Potter’s sweaty hand squeezed Draco’s gently, pulling his mask back into place. “Or maybe,” he continued with a smirk, “your hero complex is contagious. You know, all this hero stuff is really quite unbecoming of a Malfoy.”

Potter’s lips quirked in a returned smirk, “Suits you, though.”

“Blasphemy!” Draco extricated his hand from under Potter’s own clammy one and shuffled backwards a few inches. Potter shook his head gently in disagreement, and the lull in their conversation stretched into a palpably awkward silence.

“So,” Draco said, cracking first, “is this how this usually goes?” Potter looked confused. “Panic attack followed by an awkward snog and an even more awkward silence?”

Potter shook his head, “No, not quite.”

“Shame, I’d imagine The Weasel’s face after your awkward snog’d be priceless.”

The briefest hint of a smile that had danced across Potter’s expression fled when he spoke again, “Ron and Hermione don’t…” he faltered, “...they can’t make them stop, not like…” he looked up, directly at Draco, “...not like you did.”

“It’s hardly creating a horcrux,” Draco winced at the inappropriateness of his metaphor, “it’s counting, I’m sure even The Weasel can manage that. Five, four, three, two, one,” he counted down on his fingers, to hammer the point home.

“It wasn’t that,” Potter said faintly.

Draco snorted, “Awkward snogs are hardly a solution, Potter.”

“I’m sure,” Potter looked up hopefully, “with enough practice the awkwardness would go away.”

With déjà vu roiling around his stomach, Draco Malfoy had to make The Most Important Decision Of His Life.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Standard fanfic disclaimer:** If you recognise it, it belongs to J.K. Rowling; this is just fanfic for nothing other than entertainment purposes.


End file.
